Poetry

The pears fall hushed in the grass like fat pigeons. At first spotted careful as goldfish, a delicate bruise soon swallows their contours. On the boughs pears clench into yellow. (We ate slightly rotted pears as children, our tongues finding the sharp line between use & decay. Sometimes against the core, a worm like green…

I You have been dreaming for a long time of being me And it has made you so tired that sleep seems impossible so Suddenly you remain where you have been for a long time II During times in your life like this which were meant to be emblems For you to admire in the…

I’ll sit on this porch all night, my gin glass sweating, moths searing their eyes in the attractive light. I might be beautiful, I’ll need to be patient as the man on the train, who waves, who requires so much of me in passing. And the tracks receding, go gentian, violet, toward themselves; curative as…

It was not spring but spring seemed on its way That winter’s day that sun and wine had warmed For us, at leisure (one might almost say At peace), although the city’s sidewalks swarmed With people not too different from our own. But whether it was splendour or a slum Through which we walked, we…

I The noon dazes us, a brilliant back-beater. II Like hands slapping the water, ducks settle. III Shakedown time: fall trees fork over to the winds. IV Cornfields craze the wild crows, raucous on the fence. V This, this, this: like a stick against fence pickets.

Two straight days of sun and the idiot magnolia opens Boston, to cleanse it, pull the bullet of winter. I feel better. The bodies in the river thaw to neon fish, and clouds, sculling. There’s no telling when it will snow again. Blossoms are words in the long-winded streets: landed absences, long-distance calls for relief….

it’s lonely in here loneliness is hard            it’s frightening to think one might always be alone. One      be alone forever there are the window sounds      wall sounds            neighbors how can we be close together      and not in one another’s arms?            the lucky people who have found lovers grow spoiled & demanding

no wrong but to harm others? *     *      * what harms others? *     *      * there is nothing but your (my) naked being. anyone can put his hand on my cock or her tongue up my ass. *     *      * if it feels good, it is good? it might feel good to crack someone’s sky. *     *      * then…

I keep going to my own funeral with a spade to help the gravedigger and a transistor radio playing pop and rock to put on the side of the grave because I might get down among the dead and I am afraid of the bones. What if they should get up and squeak No room…